


Born to Be Wild

by ColtsAndQuills



Series: Born to Be Wild [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Demon!Dean, Family, Friendship/Love, Gen, Mark of Cain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-22 05:59:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2497112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColtsAndQuills/pseuds/ColtsAndQuills
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emotions are running wild, but so is the new and questionably improved Dean Winchester. Is Crowley really seeking Sam's help in recovering his stray protégé, or is the younger Winchester being lured into a trap that will put both his life and Castiel's in jeopardy?</p>
<p>Post-S9 ficlet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Born to Be Wild

  
“You LOST him?! What do you mean you lost him?!” Sam loomed over Crowley, a veritable mountain of rage wrapped in rumpled plaid. He hadn’t taken Dean’s transformation very well, and had been rather testy ever since.

The suit-clad demon didn’t budge, despite Sam seeming ready to pick him up and shake him like a Magic-8-Ball to get the answers he sought. He retained the usual social graces with a tolerant air. Years of associating with the Winchesters had made him grow used to their theatrics. 

"You’re the clever one, why not try working it out. The statement speaks for itself, don’t you think?"

He inwardly sighed as the hunter gripped a handful of his dress shirt and tie, nostrils flaring. He might have to change Sam’s nickname from “Moose” to “Bull.” It suited this temper of his, and could make for some fun quips when calling him on his shi—

"I thought he was ‘one of yours,’ now! Isn’t that how you put it before you made off with him the other night?" Sam snarled.

"He’s a demon, not a dog. You couldn’t keep him under control when he was a human, and you think I can keep him on a leash now that he’s battery-packed by one of the world’s oldest sins?" Crowley snorted as Sam released him, straightening the tie that had been so brutishly misplaced. "Besides. All my pups are _pedigree_.”

"So what’s this mean? He’s out there… what? Slaughtering people? Creating a bloodbath at every pit stop that ever shortchanged us on gas?" Sam’s adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, unable to stand the taste of the words on his tongue. Dark swaths of violet hung beneath his eyes; he couldn’t close them without seeing the soulless pools that had looked out at him from his brother’s face three nights before.

"You’ve been reading too much Twilight. He’s not in some… rabid state of bloodlust. I imagine he’s doing whatever the hell he pleases. Maybe he’s fucking the remaining virtue out of Caesar’s Palace’s leading silicone starlet. Maybe he’s drinking Scotland’s distilleries dry. Perhaps he’s joyriding with a biker gang.” He thoughtfully paused. “Or, I suppose he might have ripped the members’ hearts out and just kept their bikes.” 

Sam came close to an eyeroll. It was the first move of his to put Crowley’s metaphorical knickers in a twist.

“Don’t you get it? For the first time in your brother’s life, he’s _free_. Free from the inconsequential, mortal guilt he’s been ritualistically flaying himself with since I’ve met you two. Free from the yoke of responsibility your prize of a father strapped on him ever since he decided he couldn’t deal with his wife burning up like a molotov cocktail. Free—”

“Free from me, you mean.” Sam’s voice was cold, but the look in his eyes was all vulnerability and hurt. Maybe he could lie his way into a crime scene, but as far as Crowley was concerned, the boy couldn’t fib his way out of a confessional. The hunter could swaddle up in as many layers of ice as he liked, but it would never hide his pain from the demon.

“ _Good. Serve the prat right. How are you enjoying those feelings, Sammy? I believe I owe you a pang or two_ ,” Crowley thought.

“Yes, free from you. _And_ that paved-with-good-intentions broken angel. And the bloody memories of substitute father figures and prophets and every other wayward soul you lot trampled over as you saved the world.”

“And what about you, Crowley? Is he free from you?”

The demon looked dismissively at the floor, his brows arched. “We all pay our dues to somebody.”

“Except you.”

Crowley smiled. “Yes, well, it’s good to be king.” He began to pace, his fingers interlocking behind his back. “Though don’t write me off as the carefree demon I appear to be. I am a slave to my regal duties, after all. One of which includes ensuring the welfare of family.”

“He’s not your family!” Sam’s hand moved to the blade sheathed at his hip. This conversation had its elements of fun, but Crowley knew when a pot was about to boil over — especially one as cracked and burnt as the younger Winchester.

“Family, abject subject. Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.” He changed the subject with a wave of his hand. “In any case, aren’t you curious as to why I’m here?”

Of course Sam was, not that he expected anything good to come of what Crowley had to say. The demon’s idea of honesty was a funhouse mirror; his words might reflect some degree of sincerity, but his truths were always stretched, warped and grotesque. 

“Would it matter?” the hunter replied.

“Now is that any way to treat an old comrade? Especially when I’m here to help a mutual friend.”

Sam looked at Crowley with disgust. “Friend? Tool, sure. But don’t pretend my brother has ever been your friend.”

Crowley’s eyes dramatically widened. “Your brother? Who said anything about Dean? I’m referring to our presently featherless colleague.”

Sam’s lips pulled downward under a five o’clock shadow. “Cas?”

“Yes, Cas. Or have you been too busy with your one-man pity party to remember those that got separated from the flock?” 

Under Crowley’s stare it was hard for Sam to keep his face impassive. He wasn’t about to give the demon any wet dreams by providing him with the juicy details of his agony. The tears, the screams of denial, the panic. Sam had been on his knees that night, ready to pray to anything and everything for the return of his brother — his _real_ brother — but a fear had stilled his lips. 

“Ah ha. So maybe dear ole’ Castiel hasn’t been forgotten, but avoided.” Crowley’s eyes were more than watching him, they were studying. He could act as nonchalant as he wanted to, but Sam recognized the sharp glint to the king’s gaze. He didn’t reply.

“No need to hide it, Sam. It’s not exactly a secret that even those who would gladly hum a hallelujah on Castiel would just as soon see Dean dead the moment they had a good excuse to smite his brains out.”

“So what’s your point?” Dealing with Crowley was exhausting. He never initiated contact unless he wanted something, and Sam had nothing left to give. 

“My point,” Crowley stressed the word, “is that Dean is no more popular with the angels than he is with my own kind. And despite my orders that he’s to remain untouched… Well, let’s just say I’ve got a rambunctious kingdom underfoot.”

Crowley bit back the smirk that wanted to surface. Sam looked a mess, muddled by a lack of sleep and the remains of whatever cheap liquor he had numbed himself with over the last few days, but the gears were finally beginning to turn.

“You know how it is. They’re a noisy bunch, and Dean has never been what one would call subtle. What with all the fighting and slaying and innocents sure to get caught in the crossfire, how long do you think it’ll be before Heaven hears it through the grapevine that your brother has gone to the dark side?”

“They’re going to kill him,” Sam said quietly.

“Eh.” Crowley shrugged. “They could try. I doubt they’d succeed.” He paused, giving Sam a moment to catch up. When he saw the concern that brightened Sam’s eyes, he knew he finally had the boy’s full attention. “But how do you suppose Castiel will fare?” 

“You don’t seriously think Cas will —”

“What? Try to kill him? Wake him up with a kiss? Sit him down and give him the talk? Who can say. That angel’s always been a few members short of a choir. It’s what makes him so good for a surprise.” 

“Or a setup.” Sam didn’t bother hiding the accusation in his tone.

Crowley smiled placidly. “Believe what you will, Sam. You always do. But I highly suggest that you step up and sober up, because you’re becoming more alone by the minute.”

A boom echoed off the stone walls, the scent of fresh gunpowder carried on the air, and all Sam had to show for it was one less bullet. Crowley was gone, but his shot, although verbal, had been better aimed and did far more damage — he had hit the hunter right where he wanted to.

Sam swore. The sun was rising.

**Author's Note:**

> Found [here](http://coltsandquills.tumblr.com/post/99969259931/born-to-be-wild-post-s9-story) on tumblr.


End file.
